


First of Many

by prototyping



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Making Out, Romance, big soft man doesn't know how to word feelings, but his smol tough lady is patient, let him have nice things, some awkward line between fluff and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: After a close call in battle, Dimitri frets and fumbles over Byleth as only someone hopelessly in love can do.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 38
Kudos: 572





	First of Many

“That was reckless of you.”

His tone is too gentle to be stern, but it’s a reprimand all the same. Byleth glances up at where Dimitri fills the entrance to her tent, his expression likewise a dichotomy of authority and concern.

She shifts to sit on her knees, resuming the task at hand as though she wasn’t interrupted. As she splashes water from her canteen onto the rag spread over her lap, she answers, “I’ve done worse. I’m glad you’re alright.”

She can almost hear his frown as he steps inside. The canvas falls shut behind him, muffling the sounds of the camp. “And I’m relieved that _you’re_ alright. More than you know. But you shouldn’t have taken such a risk for my sake in the first place.”

She pauses as she looks up at him. His skin and unkempt hair are still damp with sweat from the recent battle. He’s tired, but he’s uninjured. He’s safe.

“Dimitri,” she says slowly, wringing out the rag with one hand, “I’m sure you know better than anyone what the priorities are in war. Everyone in this army is—”

“If you’re about to tell me that my life is worth more than yours, I don’t want to hear it.” There’s a chill in his tone, a vein of irritation, but Byleth knows it isn’t directed at her. She holds back a small sigh.

“My chances of dying were low,” she says calmly, matter-of-factly. “I would have had to drop my sword and close my eyes for that blow to land anywhere near—”

“That’s beside the point,” Dimitri counters. “Maybe you were fortunate this time, but next time—Goddess forbid there’s a next time—”

“You wouldn’t have done the same?”

He glares down at her, annoyed by the turnabout, but it’s half-hearted. She smiles softly. “Or is that also beside the point?”

He lets out a long, quiet sigh as he looks away. Byleth waits, but his silence persists.

“Dimitri. I know how much you hate the idea of people dying, especially for your sake. But if you panic every time someone chooses to take that risk, this war will be over sooner than you think. And not in our favor.”

That said, she finally drapes the cool rag over the inside of her elbow. Her jaw sets as it settles against the gash there. If she has one regret, it’s that she didn’t take the blow somewhere more convenient; it’s going to sting like mad every time she bends her arm.

She can’t totally blame him for his worry, either. Despite how shallow the cut is, the amount of blood makes it look much worse. She’s pretty sure it managed to splatter up as far as her cheek, but cleaning anything besides the injury is a secondary concern. She’ll catch Mercedes later, once the more serious wounds in the army are taken care of, but for now a quick scrub and bandage will tide her over.

“I know that,” Dimitri says suddenly, gruffly. “But…”

“It’s not easy,” Byleth finishes for him. Her voice is sympathetic.

She watches him sit down beside her. He has his back to the entrance, which she faces. Even now, they’re watching each other’s backs, in a sense.

“It isn’t,” he agrees after a moment. “Although, I’ll selfishly admit that it’s even harder to accept when it’s you in question.”

She’s certain her surprise shows on her face, but he’s staring ahead and misses the look. Or perhaps he knows it’s there and doesn’t react.

For a moment she says nothing. The rag has already grown warm, so she peels it away to fold it over. Then, with a crooked smile, “Are you about to tell me your jokes have gotten better, again?”

“What? No,” he says quickly. He turns to her with a hurt look, but it fades into one of recognition almost immediately. “Oh… No. Nothing like that.” His gaze falls to the ground for a few long seconds. Then, more quietly, “I watched you die once. I don’t know if I can do it again.”

Her playful smile fades. Even after spending so much time around him since reuniting, the reality of that five-year gap still hangs heavy around them both. She’ll never ask what all he went through—that knowledge is his to keep or share, his to bury in his memory or relive by telling her—but when he makes a remark like that one, she wonders.

And she feels guilty for not knowing in the first place.

Byleth turns toward him and places a hand on his arm. He looks down at it. “I don’t plan to leave you,” she tells him firmly, but not unkindly. “But if the worst came to pass, I know you’d be fine. It might take some time, but… you’re strong, Dimitri. Much more than you give yourself credit for.”

He lifts his gaze to hers and his expression is hard to read. It seems to be searching her face for something—the source of her confidence in him, or a reason to believe it won’t ever be necessary—but she doesn’t shy away. If she could bear the weight of his piercing stare before, when it was cold and vacant and always looking through her, she can handle this eager soul-searching in comparison.

Something tingles along her arm at the same time that Dimitri’s gaze shifts to her side. She looks down to find a fresh trickle of blood running down from her cut, having taken advantage of the pause. She grimaces and finds a clean corner of the rag, but Dimitri catches her wrist before she can apply it to her elbow again.

“Please. Allow me.”

His grip is loose, giving Byleth ample opportunity to shake him off if she chooses. Instead she relaxes against his fingers with a small nod and a smaller smile. “Thank you.”

He ignores the small stream of scarlet and dabs gingerly at the edges of her cut. She wonders how much he’s had to treat his own wounds in the last few years, because the tenderness in his movements is new. These are the same hands that have broken the delicate handles off of teacups, snapped lances in half, crushed men’s skulls—and now, drenched in so much more blood since then, they hold her arm as gently as though he fears he’ll break her just as easily.

Wordlessly, he goes on to apply and secure the bandage. Byleth nods her gratitude as he finishes, but even then he stays where he is: not gripping her arm, but cradling it in his fingers. Holding, but not clinging as his eye looks it over once, twice, three times more.

Again, she lets him.

“Dimitri?”

He pauses, and then slowly brushes a thumb over her wrist.

“I know you’re capable, Professor,” he says quietly. “What worries me is that this world doesn’t care who’s capable—it goes by its own rules, and sometimes its reasons are nothing more than chance. So many have died for nothing, punished simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

_For being in my way_ , he doesn’t say, but his wince speaks for him.

Byleth opens her mouth—what she’ll say, she’s not sure—but Dimitri continues in the same low voice, “I’ve seen soldiers three times your size die in an instant. Strength, stature… status… it never really matters. Bones break and bodies bleed all the same, whether it’s a seasoned general or an unarmed child.”

His movement is a small one, but it’s almost jarring after how unnaturally still he’s been for the last minute: he slides his thumb slowly up her arm, collecting that thin trickle of blood. With a gentle press against her skin he deftly wipes it away, and then carefully shifts her arm to that hand as the other reaches up and cups her face.

Byleth’s breath catches, more in genuine surprise than anything else—but his thumb swipes lightly along her jaw, just as before, cleaning more blood from her skin. His touch falls away again, as quickly as it appeared.

“I’m always going to worry,” he goes on. Byleth is surprised by how long it takes her mind to shake off her stupor, to recall the conversation and comprehend his words. “And when bad things happen, I’m always going to wonder whether I couldn’t have done something different. I feel I owe people that much, as a leader. Maybe that’s a weakness, but…” He shakes his head, and then his gaze settles on her. Calm, but firm. “I’ll take it over the alternative. I’d rather be killed by sympathy than ascend a throne built on my self-righteous excuses. I’ll pursue my own path, not Edelgard’s.”

For a long moment Byleth can only stare, taking in the total conviction on Dimitri’s face. She doesn’t doubt his words.

He never stopped loving others. Those fives years took that love and twisted it, blackened it, until it warped and blinded him to everything but the worst part of love—the void it leaves when it’s lost—but even that couldn’t destroy his compassion. His heart was tried and tested more than any one person should have to bear, especially alone, and yet…

She finally withdraws from his loose grip, but only so she can slide her hands into his. When she gives his fingers a supportive squeeze, she can feel the warmth beneath his gloves.

“I know you will,” she says. “And I’ll gladly walk it with you. We all will.”

Dimitri looks down at their hands, and then after a moment grips back. When he lifts his head again, it’s with a tired but trusting smile. “Thank you, my friend. Perhaps, when all of this is over, I can look for some way to repay this ever-growing debt that I owe you. But for now…”

Byleth shakes her head. “Friends don’t count favors. I don’t think they should, anyway.”

Dimitri chuckles, a deep and lazy sound that she likes. She wonders when the last time he laughed was. “Right as always. All the same, I feel as though that part of our relationship is far too one-sided.”

“Just get through this war safe and sound. Then I’ll consider us even.” The words are out of her mouth before she considers what a damper they might be on this casual banter they have going. “Your actions should align with your beliefs, but… you have people to lead, and people who would miss you. Don’t be too careless with your life. Please.”

Dimitri’s smile softens, but it doesn’t go away. “Indeed,” he says slowly, thoughtfully. Then, in a lighter tone, “And here we’ve come full circle, fretting over one another even as we tell each other not to fret.”

His eye flickers over Byleth’s face as she gives a short, quiet laugh. “I guess I didn’t set a very good example.” He doesn’t answer, but continues studying her. “What?” she asks curiously.

“Nothing, I…” He glances down again, seeming to suppress another smile. “This probably sounds… ridiculous, but… I was just thinking of the first time I saw you smile like that. And how grateful I am that I’m able to see it again.”

Byleth also looks down. His hands have shifted just slightly so that his fingers wrap around hers in a casual, proper hold. She doesn’t often touch people, but there’s something pleasant and comforting about this contact. Perhaps it’s just the contrast of having always seen her hands as an extension of her weapons—strong and scarred and calloused—while he holds them so carefully, but she finds that she likes this gentle touch. She swipes her thumbs over the backs of his hands and feels his grip tighten.

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” she assures him, meeting his gaze again. Dimitri holds it, silent for a few beats longer than she would expect. “To be honest,” she adds with a light shrug to break the stillness, “it’s nice to hear. When you told me that you aren’t good with facial expressions, I didn’t think much of it, since I’m the same way. Even now, I can’t always tell what face I’m making.”

It doesn’t bother her. She might never grow out of old habits, not fully, but everyone important to her already accepts her as she is. She’s happy as she is. Remarks like the one Dimitri just made are reminders of that acceptance—and she likes how happy her smile seems to make him, besides.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a bad thing,” he replies thoughtfully, seriously. “If your feelings are always expressed in such a way, I think it says you’re honest. Straightforward.”

Byleth considers that, and supposes that sounds like her. She doesn’t always speak her thoughts, but when she does, she only ever does so honestly. She isn’t as blunt as she used to be—she’s learned to soften her words around certain people—but she doesn’t find reason to shy from the truth.

She wonders how Dimitri interprets his own struggle with such things. Probably not as optimistically, she thinks.

“At any rate,” he continues, “I assure you, at present you’re wearing a wonderful smile. I’m sure the troops will be glad to see one of their leaders in good spirits.”

“Maybe. But it would probably mean more coming from you.” She tilts her head, trying to catch his eye when he glances away. “You have a nice smile, too, you know.”

He looks both amused and sheepish. “Even if that’s true, I don’t show it often enough to be helpful, I’m afraid.”

“You show it plenty around me.”

“Naturally. I should smile when I’m happy.” He says it so casually that Byleth second-guesses the implication in those words—but no, Dimitri is just as sincere and honest as always.

She glances down at their hands, unsure how to answer. He must mistake it for embarrassment. “Was that—? I’m sorry, I—as ever, my words aren’t as eloquent as they could be,” he says quickly. “Neither did I mean to infer—anything of the… that you might consider…”

He trails off. More surprising than his stammering is the light touch of color in his face.

“I… make you happy?” Byleth surmises curiously.

This time Dimitri seems to consider his answer before giving it. “Yes. Very much so.”

That simple admission strikes her as an important one. If not for the steady way he’s watching her or his serious tone, then for the fact that _happy_ isn’t a term he uses or a feeling he gives off at all these days. He isn’t drowning in grief and steeped in hatred like before, not totally, but he still has a long way to go in his recovery.

So she’s surprised by his choice of words, touched in a way she can’t really describe, and uncertain what it means.

As if sensing as much, Dimitri explains, “I’m grateful for all those who have followed me this far, of course. I don’t deserve the loyalty they’ve shown me. But with you, it’s… different, Professor.”

“What is?”

“Everything.” Again, he hesitates. His thoughtful frown suggests he’s as puzzled as she is. “When I’m around you, I feel as though I’m at both my strongest and my weakest all at once. I worry what you think, but I trust you to be honest and correct me. I feel as though you see through me better than anyone—and in a way, it’s terrifying. But… it’s relieving, as well, to know that you see me for all that I am and still choose to stand by me.”

His grip on her hands shifts slightly and he pulls them a little closer, staring intently down at them as though they might explain his paradoxical feelings.

“And… that makes you happy?” Byleth wonders, even more puzzled than before.

He nods firmly. “Perhaps I’m not doing my thoughts justice with my rambling, but… Suffice to say that when I feel strong, I know that it’s in part because of you. And when I feel weak, I know I can depend on you to support me. You’ve only ever guided me in the right direction, and so I trust your judgment completely. To know that you see something in me worth believing in… it gives me hope for myself.”

Dimitri’s smile is small and almost shy and it’s clear how much all of that means to him. Byleth is pleased that she helped put such a look on his face—so pleased that a feeling of warmth blossoms in her chest.

He looks at her again and that warmth grows. His expression is open and fond and trusting—vulnerable, in a way, because she knows without asking that this isn’t a side of him other people see often, if ever. Especially now. There’s something specific in his gaze, something matching his confused but confident tone—something meant for her alone.

That gaze moves over all of her face now, not just her eyes. It’s slow and studious, as though he’s seeing her for the first time.

“When I look at you like this,” he says softly, “it’s… the closest thing to peace that I have felt in a long time.”

Byleth feels something twist inside her, a sensation both pleasant and painful. She slips one hand free and reaches up, intending to place it on his chest—such a gesture seems right, somehow—but at the last second she impulsively keeps going, higher, to settle her palm against his cheek.

His skin is cool and unexpectedly soft, or perhaps her hands are just rough. She feels him tense a split-second before his surprise shows on his face. He turns toward her hand and opens his mouth to speak, only for the motion to brush his lips against her palm.

They both go still at that: Byleth with surprise at the featherlight sensation, Dimitri with something that invites a deeper shade of color into his face and makes his skin grow warmer still beneath her touch. He meets her eyes with a look that’s hard to read.

Her curiosity gets the better of her. She brushes her thumb along his upper lip to the corner of his mouth, where it lingers. His breath resumes, light but hot. He watches her intently, as though what she does next is entirely up to her. Since he still isn’t objecting, Byleth continues.

Her thumb drags gently down to trace the light scar on his chin, her fingertips running along his jaw. They travel slowly back up his cheek to his temple, his forehead, where she brushes strands of hair away from his good eye. She follows the sharp slant of his nose down, until two fingers are pressing lightly against his mouth.

She’s aware that she should probably feel embarrassed—this is _intimate_ if anything ever was, the implications more complicated than she can put into words—but it almost feels too natural to question it. It’s new and it’s different, but it isn’t wrong. The acceptance and attentive warmth in Dimitri’s gaze are all the more reassuring.

As Byleth watches, that gaze lowers and stops on her mouth.

A startling rush of sensation races from her head to her toes. She feels overwhelmed, almost dizzy with the wordless impulses that flood her head and insist that her fingers hovering on his lips simply isn’t _enough_.

She isn’t sure who leans closer—perhaps both of them do—but suddenly he’s close enough for his hair to brush her face, for her to feel the heat of his skin directly against hers. Dimitri’s hands are still between them, still respectfully refusing to reach back, and Byleth counters that restraint by touching her forehead to his. The sensation of their noses brushing, their breaths mingling as her hand falls away, makes her gasp softly and soundlessly at the same time that she feels him shiver.

Dimitri speaks and it’s like he breathes his words directly past her lips. She feels his breath on her tongue and wonders if his skin tastes the same.

“May I speak freely, Professor?” His voice is the quietest she’s ever heard it.

She looks into his eye but it still hasn’t lifted, even though the two of them are surely too close now for him to still have a proper view of her mouth.

“Of course.” Her breath rolls off his skin. Something like a chill runs down her spine, except it’s warm.

“If you have any... misgivings, about what may occur between us… please, say so.”

Their gazes meet and his is heavy, focused. He’s hanging on her response.

Byleth realizes she is, too.

“I don’t.”

The words are barely out when their mouths touch. For a moment it’s simply that—a touch, light and careful and uncertain—and then she responds again to reassure him that there are still no misgivings, this time by tilting her head so that her lips curve more naturally around his.

It’s slow and a little clumsy, but it’s warm and it’s _him_ and that fluttering feeling in her chest from before is back and she grips his hand tighter to keep hers from shaking.

Dimitri smells like battle—sweat and blood and the tang of metal—but it’s a background detail. Byleth figures she smells the same, if not worse. She’s more surprised by how soft he feels, how gentle he’s being—and how much she enjoys this, even before their brief kisses begin blending into longer, deeper ones.

A kiss strikes her as _trusting_ more than anything. She can’t recall ever being this close to another person before; she can’t watch his movements or her surroundings, but that doesn’t bother her at all. She trusts his intentions entirely, having no doubt that she’s safe with him in every respect. The same must go for Dimitri, she realizes, and that mutual trust is just as satisfying as the heat that each of his ministrations sends rippling through her.

Byleth moves almost without thinking, running her hands up his armored chest with the sudden urge to feel more of him again. She’s just cupped his face when his hands settle on her back and now the two of them are even closer, her chest against his, and she has to tilt her head back further to keep their mouths aligned. Her good arm slips around his neck to pull him down against her more firmly, and she almost sighs when his grip tightens in response.

She quickly decides she’s comfortable with experimenting and does so, testing light bites and brief touches of her tongue along his lips, and she takes his heavy breaths and fingertips digging into her sides as signs to keep going.

When Dimitri’s motions turn rougher, she reciprocates, the warm buzz of desire in her limbs growing more intense.

When he grows rougher still—the arm around her waist is squeezing, his fingers in her hair are crushing her mouth to his—Byleth tries to keep up. It’s when his tongue pushes past hers and fills her mouth that breathing becomes difficult. He sucks the air out of her faster than she can take it in, her nose pressed too tight against his cheek to offer much relief.

Her concerned grunt goes unnoticed, and she can barely twitch her head against his strong grip. Stars begin to dot her vision.

She plants her forearms against his chest and shoves, wrenching her head to the side as hard as she’s able. Their mouths break apart and she gasps sharply.

“Professor—?” Dimitri’s confusion hardens into realization. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I—”

She shakes her head as she continues to pant. It takes her a moment to swallow and speak, and even then she still sounds breathless. “No, it’s fine—you surprised me, is all.” She offers him a shy smile but he looks gravely serious, even solemn.

When Byleth leans in again, he turns his head at the last second. “No. I shouldn’t—I could have—”

“You didn’t,” she says calmly.

He breathes out sharply, refusing to look at her. His face is still flushed. 

The rejection stings, even though she knows he’s only acting out of concern. “Dimitri, I wouldn’t take that chance if I didn’t trust you.” When he stays silent, she asks, “What happened to ‘trusting my judgment completely?’ ”

He holds his breath for a moment, and then releases it again in a quiet sigh. Byleth leans up and brushes her nose against his cheek. “If you’re that concerned,” she murmurs, gripping his wrists, “then don’t use your hands.”

Their noses bump gently as he turns to her. “It isn’t just my hands.” His breath is so warm. “I—”

“Then don’t kiss my mouth,” she says without thinking, opting for the simplest solution. “Not until you’re comfortable.”

Their eyes meet and Dimitri stares at her. She can guess why: there’s a lot of insinuation in those words, most notably that this… exchange will continue. 

Should it not? she suddenly wonders. Did she read into his words wrong? Was that first kiss just some curiosity that incidentally snowballed into something more?

Dimitri appears to withdraw, which does nothing to alleviate Byleth’s uncertainty, but a moment later she feels him exhale softly against her hairline.

“You… would be alright with that?” he asks, very quietly.

“Yes.”

A pause, and then he gives the lightest kiss so far to her forehead. Her eyes drift closed as he repeats. He kisses the space between her eyes, the side of her nose, twice across her cheek, all gentle and surprisingly chaste compared to his hunger before.

He kisses along her jaw, and then leans down to hover over the side of her neck. Byleth bites her lip, but the touch never comes.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes against her skin.

“You won’t.” She gives his wrists a light squeeze and whispers near his ear. “I'm not afraid of you. I never was.”

He breathes in. She waits.

Dimitri nuzzles her first, skimming his nose along the rim of her collar, and then up the curve of her neck to her ear as his breath continues to tease her. Byleth tilts her head to give him better access and he takes it, pressing his face against her for a long, still moment.

Then his lips graze just beneath her jaw once, twice, before he leans into it with a firm kiss. She gasps as she fights back a shiver. She had no idea that spot— _any_ spot—was so vulnerable.

He kisses her open-mouthed and slowly. When he sucks lightly at the skin, it takes her a moment to realize the low moan she hears is her own.

Her fingers are clumsy as she reaches behind her to unclasp her collar and pull it free. Dimitri attacks her exposed throat before she can get a word out, earning more pleased sounds with the increasingly bold movements of his lips and tongue.

Her impatience wins out. Her shaking fingers run along his sides, following the seams of his armor and searching for the buckles. “Take this off,” she groans.

He obliges, which unfortunately withdraws him from her neck. Byleth watches him strip off his cloak and gloves and chest armor with practiced ease, leaving him in his cotton shirt and allowing her to look on his bare arms for the first time. They’re as toned as they are scarred and she can’t resist running her hands over them, quickly at first, and then again more slowly.

She’s never felt so… _pleased_ by the sight of someone else, not like this. It isn’t the same as the relief she feels when she finds him whole and well after a battle, nor the warm joy when she sees him in general. This is something else, something hot and impatient.

With her own armor already removed, there’s nothing keeping her from embracing him and pressing her chest firmly against his as she takes her mouth to his throat in kind. She matches the fervor of his previous kisses, eager and aggressive, and the groan that hums beneath her lips leaves her almost dizzy with desire.

She doesn’t share in his patience: she withdraws and leans up to tease at his mouth with her own, but he immediately twitches back and out of reach.

“Dimitri…”

She can see the debate in his expression. His hands rub her sides slowly, uncertainly, but the tension in his body speaks for him: he wants more than this. He’s just afraid of taking it.

Byleth straightens up on her knees and grips his broad shoulders. Ignoring his curious stare, she leans into him and pushes him backwards—all the way, until he’s flat on his back and she’s leaning over him. “You’re not going to hurt me,” she says slowly, evenly. She throws a leg over him to straddle his hips. Something deep inside her sings at the sight of _him_ looking up at _her_ for once.

She takes his startled face in her hands. “I won’t let you,” she promises, ghosting a kiss across his chin. “Trust me.”

His expression softens. When his hands come to rest on the small of her back, she doesn’t resist a shiver this time, but allows her body to tremble and tell him how much she likes that. How much she wants it.

He decides to trust her.

Their kiss picks up where they left off, long and deep and eager. Despite her small figure, Byleth feels his breath catch as she settles flush on top of him, and she can immediately understand why: heat and hungry impulses race through her at the bold contact. Dimitri’s fingers fist in her shirt, drawing it further up her waist, and she bites his lip as cool air rolls across her hot skin.

Her hands feel heavy as they move from squeezing his shoulders to rubbing over his chest. Her fingers catch a glimpse of skin at the bottom of his neckline, and she toys clumsily with the string there to eventually tug the knot free. Her hand slips inside and this time she’s the one to lose her breath, surprised and aroused by the pleasurably hot skin of his chest.

Emboldened, perhaps, Dimitri likewise slides his palm across her bare lower back. Byleth hums and kisses him harder still, satisfied with the way her lips are beginning to sting.

“Professor,” he grunts, the word somehow a commendation and a plea all at once. “Professor—”

“Say my name.” Byleth abruptly breaks from his mouth to push herself up, seated solidly on his stomach as she leans over him. They’re both panting hard. “Say my name,” she repeats, softer, more of a request than the first time.

Dimitri reaches up and brushes his knuckles against her cheek. “Byleth,” he breathes. It’s quiet, affectionate. Warm, but not hot like his dazed proclamations moments ago.

Byleth leans down, intending to rectify that.

_“Professor!”_ a musical voice suddenly rings out. It’s a gentle sound, but it’s almost jarring as it shatters this small, private world of theirs like glass.

By the time both of them recognize it and realize the situation, the tent flap is already opening with a cheerful “Knock, knock!” as Mercedes enters.

“I saw you were injured earlier—” she starts, only to stop mid-sentence and mid-step as her eyes land on the tangle of prince and professor on the tent floor.

No one moves. Byleth isn’t sure how long the unnaturally still moment lasts, but it’s enough for all of her previous heat and desire to fade as abruptly as a candle being snuffed out. Underneath her, Dimitri still has his hands halfway up her shirt.

Mercedes, whose soft smile hasn’t so much as budged, recovers first. “Well!” She claps her hands as she promptly averts her gaze, her happy tone unfazed. “I’ll come back later!” As though there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, she turns and departs in the same bubbly air she entered with.

Even after they’re alone again, it takes several moments for either of them to move.

Byleth quickly sits back as Dimitri sits up. “My apologies, Professor—”

“It’s fine—”

“I shouldn’t have—gotten so carried away—” He stops as she touches a finger to his lips.

“I’m glad you did,” she assures him. The color in his face deepens a shade, if possible, but he wraps a hand around hers.

“As am I,” he agrees. His voice is as gentle as the kiss he presses to her fingertips.

As reluctant as Byleth is to end the moment, Mercedes’ interruption was a reminder of all that still needs to be done before the camp turns in for the night. She stands up and offers Dimitri a hand, which he takes, and they each suddenly find it hard to look at the other as they linger uncertainly in place.

“Profess—Byleth,” Dimitri corrects hesitantly, prompting her to raise her eyes. “I meant what I said before. Your trust and your friendship bring me more joy than I can express. Regardless of what happened just now… I would never expect you to give more—to _be_ more than you are comfortable with.”

The bubble of nervous excitement in her chest suddenly deflates. He’s already retreating into his doubt again—questioning whether he deserves this kind of happiness, most likely. Or maybe he’s already convinced himself it was all a misunderstanding.

He’s sliding back into a place that Byleth swore she would never let him return to. Disregarding her own mess of emotions that she still needs to untangle, she reaches up to take his face in her hands so that he can’t look away from her.

“Don’t.”

_Don’t do this to yourself._

The forced, polite cheer in Dimitri’s expression crumbles at her firm tone. For a moment Byleth says nothing else, emphasizing her remark with her gaze and her silence. Then she smiles. “Or I’ll kiss you again if that’s what it takes.”

He blinks, and then glances aside with an embarrassed chuckle. “Is that a threat?”

“Not if you’re alright with it.”

He quickly looks at her again. “Of c—”

“Professor! Are you present?”

This time Byleth and Dimitri both have the sense to react: she drops her hands and he takes a step back. “Yes,” she calls back as they face the tent entrance together. “Enter.”

A young soldier appears with a quick salute. “I’m sorry, Professor, have you seen—oh! Your Highness! Sir Gilbert sent me to find you.”

Dimitri gives a prompt nod, the air around him abruptly collected and confident. “Thank you. Tell him I’ll meet him shortly.”

The soldier salutes again and hurries out. Dimitri turns to Byleth with an apologetic smile. “I would prefer to stay and talk, but… it seems now isn't the time.”

“ _Just_ talk?” she wonders, and watches as his face goes red again.

“Well, yes—about what just happened, to be sure, but—also—” His stammering ceases as she touches his arm with a soft laugh.

“Another time,” she agrees.


End file.
